


Seasons Change

by DawnsEternalLight



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Autumn, Bonding, Brothers, Fluff, Gen, Memories, batfamcontentwar, fall - Freeform, halloweencontentwar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 00:59:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12494860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight
Summary: It's fall and the colors are beautiful enough to paint, or at least that's what Dick promises Damian as they set out to spend the day together. And the colors are beautiful, but they spark a surprising homesickness in Damian he's not sure how to deal with.





	Seasons Change

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tumblr's Halloween Content War day 1 Fall. I feel like lots of people did walks in the leaves, but I hope this one takes a different turn than you were expecting.

Damian was not normally a fan of the cold. As soon as the weather started to turn towards the abominable seasons of Fall and Winter he kept his time outdoors limited. There was of course patrol, and Titus’s walking, and Grayson’s inane attempts at getting Damian to enjoy the ‘nice weather’ to force him out of doors. Still, Damian did his best to keep that to a minimum.

No matter his feelings on the weather, he could not deny his brother’s suggestion that there was art to be made outside. He bundled himself up and collected his painting supplies to follow Grayson out onto the grounds of Wayne manor. The colors already shifted from green to those of gold, red, and orange.

He slipped his free hand into his brother’s as they walked, and Grayson spared him a moment to smile down at him.

“Tt, do not assume anything childish of my actions, Grayson. Your hand is warmer than mine. It makes sense for me to syphon some of your heat so my fingers will be able to hold my paintbrushes later.”

“Right.” Grayson grinned, “I’m always happy to help your fingers stay warm.”

Damian gave him a single nod before turning his attention forward again. It would not do to walk through the grounds and not pay attention to where he was stepping. With the onslaught of fall there were more things to trip over, and thus more possibilities to injure himself.

In front of them, Titus bounded excitedly, ignoring risk of tripping. His paws sent puffs of leaves up in bursts as he ran through them, enjoying all the space. His pawing at the door had been part of the reason Damian had agreed to join Grayson on a walk. He had been cooped up too long, against his wishes and needed time to roam.

He had not said much on their walk, and Grayson had for once let the silence spread between them. He sipped on a hot drink brought from the house and left Damian to himself.

It was easy to lose track of his thoughts outside. The gentle crunch of leaves under their feet, and the chirping of birds too late or too stubborn to leave before the cold hit in full force was relaxing. The sun poked through the trees in a way that warmed his cheeks and combated the bite of the wind the brushed through his hair. All of it making him forget about the stress of the day, of the cold that sometimes seeped into his chest, of the fact that coming to Gotham had made life more than black and white.

He pushed aside that thought as they stepped out into a clearing, the sun’s rays wrapping around Damian now, scaring off the chill of being in shade. Grayson let go of his hand to lay out a blanket, and Damian found a spot of even ground to set up his easel on.

Titus ran in front of him, chasing a ball thrown by Grayson. His brother waved at him and adjusted his next throw to out of Damian’s line of sight.

He squeezed colors onto his pallet to match those surrounding him and started to paint.

Damian could not deny the beauty of the trees. He had not grown up surrounded by scenery that changed color like this. Every bit of green bleeding into to colors of his childhood. Rust, orange, like the fire lit hallways Damian would roam before falling asleep. Red, yellow, and brown like the colors of some of his favorite outfits. Piles of leaves that built to resemble a plantlike attempt at sand dunes, the color bleeding out of the grass to turn it to the kind he might see scattered around the edges of his childhood home.

It was not the same, and yet it was. Sparking a twinge of homesickness in Damian he never expected a season to inspire. His brush sped along the canvas, his chest aching a bit as cold fought warmth like night falling in the desert.

His mind filled with sparks of red bouncing off blades, like red leaves falling from trees. One slow, the other gone in an instant, both now a part of his life. The simplicity of training, and learning. Of following Mother’s orders and learning to become all she expected of him.

Was it so terrible to miss the days when life was black and white? When Mother’s word was right and anything contrary was wrong? When Damian knew his place in the tapestry of life, and all he craved was his mother’s pride? When his goal was to be good enough to be allowed to know his father’s face? Of quiet days like this when he could explore his art instead of clashing steel against steel?

He knew he would not trade what he now had for a return to his childhood. Yet he missed it.

Then Damian had loved his mother with no reservation. There was no reason not to. She had not done anything he’d thought was wrong, couldn’t in his eyes. He had none of the bitter pain that came with growing up. That came with learning her way was wrong. Of learning his childhood had been _wrong._

He could love her without remembering her order to have him killed.

Titus came barreling towards him, chasing a leaf. He stopped at the last second before running into him, instead, butting his leg with his head.

Damian smiled down at the animal, kneeling to scratch his head. He could feel the hot warmth of his breath against his shin as the dog panted. His soft fur was the same as the first time Damian had brought himself to pet the dog. He had waited until neither his father nor Pennyworth were in view before he’d reached out to touch him.

Then he had not wanted to love the dog for fear of it being taken away if he did something wrong. Now he had learned better. His father had given him a gift, and his father did not take those away for things like sneaking out on patrol or messing up during a fight.

Titus leaned into the attention before moving to lick Damian’s hand and then his face. He caught the scent of paint and Damian had to stand to keep him from planting his nose right in a blob of orange.

“You look fine the way you are, Titus. Paint will not improve your looks at all.” He told the great dane with some amusement, as his pet whined.

“I got him.” Grayson hurried over, taking Titus’s collar, “He didn’t mess your painting up, did he?”

Damian shook his head, and opened his mouth to answer, but Grayson had caught sight of the canvas.

“Dames—”

“It is not finished.” Damian said, his face flushing.

Grayson did not take his eyes off the painting, a strange mix of the fall trees and desert memory blending together. Damian had not realized he’d been doing it, simply painting with the flow of ideas. There were the trees with their colors, and a fire blazing beneath them, it’s occupants people from Damian’s memory. A tutor. A nurse. One of the league members Damian could no longer name, but that had managed to escape. Flowers that bloomed in Mother’s garden.

Parts of it were only sketched out in rough streaks of color, the trees lacking form as their leaves blended together. Desert grass was lines against them. The fire would need fleshing out as well. But the figures, they were where Damian’s brush had lingered.

Grayson turned to him at last, his face questioning. The question was not like Father would make it. A demand for information. It was not something Drake would ask, which would betray his lack of understanding. Nor was it a look Todd would give him, his own memories often straying to his time with Talia. Grayson’s face was curious, it was searching for the reason Damian had blended the past and present together on a canvas.

It took the pang of longing for the past and twisted it in Damian’s stomach, blending it into a sour pool of shame. How could he long for everything Grayson and Father had worked to save Damian from? How dare he linger on old thoughts of things he should not desire any longer?

His life was good now. He was happy. He had a family who cared for him and a home he felt safe in. Why had he allowed his thoughts to linger so long on his past? Why not enjoy what he had? Be thankful for Titus, and Grayson. His siblings, and Pennyworth. For a father who loved him.

It was obvious now, Grayson would hate the painting. It would hurt him to know Damian had been wishing for his old home. He would wonder what he had done wrong, or what had happened to make Damian think somewhere else would be better. He would not think Damian wanted to return to crime, Grayson was not the kind of man to think that. But he would wonder what had changed in Damian.

“I can change it.” He said, the words coming slower than his hand holding the brush. He was already moving to begin blotting out the memories, and return the scene to what it should be. A happy fall day.

Grayson’s hand stopped his, the brush an inch from the painting.

“Don’t.”

Damian swallowed and looked at his brother. Titus moved to inspect a spot of tall weeds as Grayson’s hand released his collar and took the brush from Damian. He swallowed, of course Grayson would not want to watch Damian destroy the art. He did not like seeing Damian ruin anything. Even if it was something he did not agree with.

“I mean, don’t change it until you tell me why you think you need to change it.” Grayson amended. “Is there something wrong with it?”

Damian shook his head. The guilt of his reasons gluing his mouth shut, and stopping any further answer he might give.

“Then why do you want to change it?” Grayson asked.

“I allowed my history to blend with the painting. I was thinking about Mother, and the time before I came to stay with Father.”

Grayson hummed and looked back at the painting, “I miss the circus sometimes. My friends, the acts, my parents. When it hits me all I want is to be back there, back where everything felt right.”

 _Yes_ Damian wanted to say, _exactly_. But it wasn’t fair, because it had not been right. Grayson and Father had made it clear that Damian’s training was not something normal. It had not been safe or correct or something anyone should do to a child. It was not right.

But to Damian it had been.

“I used to feel really guilty when I felt that way.”

Damian’s attention snapped back to his brother, “Why? Your childhood was a good one.” _Unlike mine_.

Grayson gave him a sheepish smile, and moved the paintbrush to rest on the lip of the easel, “I felt like I was discounting everything Bruce had given me. I thought if I wanted my old life than it meant I wasn’t thankful enough for the life I’d been given, and that it was wrong to think that way.”

The earlier guilt swelled at these words. It felt like Damian was going to be swept away by it. Grayson might have been in the wrong about his feelings, but Damian knew he was right in his own. He should not want what he had.

“What I learned, was that it’s okay to miss your past.” Grayson gave him a small smile, “Even if it wasn’t always the best.”

Damian bit his lower lip. “Mine was never the best.”

His brother motioned to the painting, “This seems to argue that you’re wrong. Who were these people?”

Damian pointed to his old tutor, “He taught me how to play the violin, she was always kind to me, and he showed me the best way to stitch a wound on myself.” He motioned to each in turn.

Grayson nodded. “You know it’s alright to miss your old home, right?”

Damian’s cheeks flushed. “You have made it clear my upbringing was not ideal.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t miss it.” Grayson knelt in front of him, “I’ve only wanted the best for you, and so did your mother. Her way wasn’t always the best, but I know you have some good memories from then. Most of all, I know that before you met Bruce everything felt stable.”

Damian nodded, unwilling to trust his voice with an answer in case it wavered.

“That’s okay to miss. My life felt stable once too, when I was with my parents.”

“And you miss them, that time?” Damian asked.

Grayson smiled, “More than I care to admit. Everyone has a time in their lives they wish they could go back to sometimes. Just because yours was different than mine doesn’t mean you can’t miss it.”

“I do not want to seem like I am not happy here.” Damian explained. “I—I would not return to Mother if I had the chance.”

“I know.” Grayson put a hand on Damian’s shoulder, and he almost wished his brother would just pull him into a hug, “But there are things about then that you don’t have here, and I want you to know that missing it doesn’t mean anyone would think you want to go back.”

“It was easier then, even if it wasn’t right.” Damian told him, “But this is significantly better. Even if I am not always sure of how to feel.”

Grayson smiled at him. “Did painting this help you at all?”

Damian turned back to the canvas as the guilt inside him started to uncoil. “I believe so. If anything, it allowed me to remember some of the people I would like not to forget.”

His brother stood and nodded, “Good, you think you’ll finish it? It’s beautiful already.”

The past and present on the canvas seemed to look back at Damian, the empty spots and rough outlines calling out for more paint. “I believe I will.” He said, “And I think you will like it even more when it is finished.”


End file.
